After the Rain, the Fog

Most Read

Reader Ellie nailed it when she commented on my "Grief Flu" post. The days after a death, you do everything you have to do, yet hardly remember even being there.

There are the calls that you make and the calls that you answer. There are the calls that voicemail picks up. Some calls you cry, some make you angry; every single one ends with your throat so twisty that all you can do is peep.

This You / Not You existing now only resembles the regular you. The regular you has been body snatched, leaving a person made of fog in your place.

I think our bodies are designed like this. I think we should be grateful for Foggy, who handles all the duties. We are in unbearable pain, so we stay on the bench and send Foggy in to play this round.

The fog protects us from the unthinkable things. The legal pad I'd been using for lists changes in a page. One page, my task is to go to a Hallmark store and get a congratulatory card for a caregiver who has just achieved her nursing degree. The next page is about the cemetery and who should sit where at the funeral and making sure all Mom's grandchildren arrive in time.

Blessed be the fog that rolls in. It buffers you–you who feel skinned–and hides you for awhile.